Aleksandar Hemon - Nowhere Man

Slowly and carefully, as if an unsoft touch would break everything, Pronek pulls Rachel’s panties down her thighs, over her knees, until she wiggles her feet through the loops. She is naked now, a beautiful body to look at, the light scintillating on her skin. “Let’s put a condom on,” she says.

Everything in the supermarket has a non-negotiable name. Love will tear us apart.

Pronek is ripping the condom wrapper, like an excited puppy, his back arched, his spine saw-toothed. “I hate condoms,” he says, and bites into the wrapper again. Rachel chortles: “If we start dating seriously you can get the washable kind and never take it off.” Pronek produces a grim laugh, the condom still unconquered. “Oh, give it to me,” Rachel says, and the condom is offered on her palm in no time. “And let me put it on.”

Oh, what is that sound which so thrills the ear

Down in the valley, drumming, drumming?

Only the scarlet soldiers, dear ,

The soldiers coming.

“Can I turn off light?” Pronek says.

“The light.”

“What?”

“Can I turn off the light?”

“Turn off the light.”

Rachel turns off the light.

I sit in the darkness, only an occasional headlight mirage appearing on the walls and perishing fast. I listen to their sobs and pants, the tossing and turning and wrestling, the collision of flesh with flesh, a wheeze, a word: yes, blago , no, slowly. I cannot help being aroused, hearing their bodies wrangling in the darkness. I have to breathe timing the intake to coincide with the noises of their passion, the hand of lust gripping my throat, my loins burning. I move and the chair screeches.

“What is that?” Pronek says.

“Nothing. It’s okay. Come here.”

“I heard something.”

“It’s nothing. Let’s fuck.”

She starts producing a submerged squeal, which then turns into a fitful roar, while Pronek produces a sibilant, teeth-clenched sound as if someone were punching him in the chest. Then, to my relief, it is over — they come in duet.

Silence.

“Did you enjoy it?” Pronek says.

“Quiet.”

The room smells of their sweat and clothes. I can feel Pronek’s untense body and the tension slowly rebuilding itself — he is flexing his fingers, crushing an imaginary object.

“Can I smoke?” he pleads.

“Not here. On the deck.”

Then there is a short knock on the door and someone bursts into the room. Pronek lurches out of bed and falls on the floor and stays down.

“Rachel,” the man said.

“For God’s sake, Maxwell. I am not alone. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Shit,” Maxwell said, and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Sorry,” he said behind the closed door. “Rachel, I need a condom, I’m out.”

“Oh, God,” Rachel said, and got out of bed.

Pronek lay facedown on the floor, his heart beating so hard he imagined it trying to dig its way out with its little paws.

Rachel would not hold hands — it made her feel like a little girl, she said. But they walked all around Uptown: they looked at the old houses on Beacon, imagining crazy old ladies sheltering hundreds of cats; they sneaked into the Uptown National Bank, admiring its marble counters and high-domed ceilings, fantasizing about robbing it like Bonnie and Clyde; they strolled through the park, past a homeless camp, Rachel taking pictures, past the squash-shaped Russian ladies gibbering up soft consonants. They went to Montrose Harbor and watched the waves slamming into the embankment. She liked to take photos of the back of his neck, Pronek facing the lake, the cresting waves and a few displaced clouds lingering over the thin horizon, moving toward the skyscrapers, Rachel’s camera clicking behind him, like a hiccuping clock. At dusk, they gazed at the downtown skyline twinkling in the moist mist and were hypnotized by the dotted-light snake slithering up Lake Shore Drive, cars on their way home.

“I love you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But I love you. I never felt the love like this.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This.”

“What is this?”

“Just hold me and kiss me.”

Kiss.

“What is that?”

“What?”

“That sound.”

“What sound?”

“That sound like somebody digs.”

“Somebody is digging.”

“Who is digging?”

“Somebody is digging, not somebody digs.”

“What is the difference?”

“Well, one is right, the other is wrong.”

“Okay, who is digging?”

“Well, it sounds more like scratching and moving. It’s probably a mouse.”

“Can I smoke?”

“Not here.”

The floor was cold, and Pronek regretted being barefoot — he couldn’t afford to get sick. He saw himself lying alone in bed, sweating and sneezing, his head throbbing, waiting for Rachel to come back from work. The thought of being separated from her had become unbearable. He trudged into the kitchen, tiptoeing like an elephant ballerina to protect his soles from the cold. Maxwell was washing a throng of wineglasses, naked, his springy dreadlocks falling on his shoulders.

“Good morning, Maxwell,” Pronek said, but was not sure that he heard him.

“Hey, good morning,” Maxwell said, glancing at Pronek, but not turning toward him. Pronek wanted orange juice, but all the glasses were being washed by the naked Maxwell, so he sat at the kitchen table, trying not to look at him. But his shoulders were wide, the blades resembling armor plates; his biceps shapely and round, twisting toward his elbows, the morning light absorbed by their brownness; his spine curving into a shallow valley above the half-moons of his butt. He turned toward Pronek.

“You’ve never seen a black man’s body, have you?”

Pronek was terrified — he didn’t want Maxwell to think he was gay.

“No.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it.”

Pronek felt an urge to run out of the kitchen, toward the safety of the bedroom, but was paralyzed. Maxwell’s body was beautiful. The only move he could make was a slight turn toward the neutral zone of the blank opposite wall. The chair shrieked, stressing the ominous silence. Maxwell’s nipples were pierced, the two rings akin to door knockers. He looked straight into Pronek’s eyes and said:

“Would you like to touch it?”

He made a step toward Pronek, who leaned back, glancing around, pretending that he didn’t see and didn’t care. Maxwell’s thighs were thin, curls strewn over their curves.

Aaron walked in, naked, his penis dangling, long and thick, his skin pink. Pronek looked away, at the friendly blank wall.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Aaron said. Maxwell raised his hands, turned toward Pronek, and shrugged.

“Are you trying to seduce my boyfriend?”

Pronek licked his lips, spotted a strawberry-shaped fridge magnet, and affixed his gaze to it. “No,” he whimpered.

“You foreigners think you can just walk in and take our men,” Aaron said. “But I understand — he is beautiful.”

Pronek blinked rapidly, as if blinking itself were to produce a witty retort. But all he could say was:

“I am sorry.”

Maxwell bent forward and burst out laughing. Aaron threw his head back and gave out a cough-like chortle. They high-fived, then hugged and kissed, their lips pressed hard — it all seemed like a well-rehearsed dance. Pronek was trying halfheartedly to laugh, still determinedly staring at the strawberry magnet, his back in rigid pain. He wanted to cross his legs, but it would have been conspicuous — they might think he was having an erection — whereupon the thought overwhelmed him that he might in fact get an erection. He heard Rachel coming out of the bathroom and she walked in, wearing a blue silk bathrobe, her hair wet, her face bright and beautiful.